They fell to sleep in warmed embrace as snow fell in cooling silence, stilling world of haste.
They woke in morning to snow’s blanket cover and glow-hint promise of new-day light on horizon’s crest. In sun’s arriving rise, light shone silver into rooms through translucent iced and frost-glazed glass that would soon melt and light as gold by room’s heat on window pane and outward light of the rising sun.
In the silver light of winter dawn, they rested at table, both still in glow of night before, as they gazed on quote in decoration of room’s wall. In silver light he watched her spirit warm to gold in effect from words’ touching.
“It’s one of my favorite quotes,” she shared, face blushing with rosed warmth of spring. “I’ve always loved the ideal. What girl doesn’t want to be seen and imagined like that?”
He smiled enjoying her countenance and glow of spirit, making note, too, of author’s name beneath.
“It’s a beautiful passage,” he responded, smiling with complimenting warmth. “There is another one of his that is a favorite of mine.”
“What is it?” she asked.
He paused, retrieving words from a well of mindful memories.
“Mostly, we authors repeat ourselves—that’s the truth. We have two or three great and moving experiences in our lives—experiences so great and so moving that it doesn’t seem at the time that anyone else has been so caught up and pounded and dazzled and astonished and beaten and broken and rescued and illuminated and rewarded and humbled in just that way ever before.
Then we learn our trade, well or less well, and we tell our two or three stories—each time in a new disguise—maybe ten times, maybe a hundred, as long as people will listen.”
“I always wondered,” he continued. “How do you break the cycle?”
She smiled as light of the sun changed in the melting panes, light intensifying, illuminating more fully the room, quote, and her: light’s radiance catching as sunlight rays and golden accents held in long-strand hair.
She answered, “The two or three stories one repeats—those are past…and past is fixed on what it is. Be open to the Present. There is nothing to be found in what is already lived and written; but life gifts opportunity every day, possibilities, if we allow them to live and play.
If past is stories’ source, they will always be the same—no matter how well disguised.
Give Present a chance. Live in and for hope in possibilities. In possibilities, anything can become,” she smiled, radiant in changed light and glow of emanant spirit.
“What are your two or three great stories?” he asked.
“I haven’t stopped to wonder, let alone write them,” she answered. “I’m still living for new. Whether you find it, or it finds you—as long as you keep living—new stories will show.
If you are short on stories, write less and live more.” Her face and body rosed in greater expression of spirit as she paused before measured words, “You can join me if you like…” eyes free and unburdened in offering of spirit-innocence, searching for response in his own soul-window eyes.
Cautious, she changed the conversation back to words on the wall.
“It’s one of my favorite quotes,” she spoke again. “Much is said in the words of others that we share…”
He witnessed, observant to her details: soft changes in demeanor; bared openness and resurrected guards; how all could change with the flash, reading, and speaking of a word.
“Do you ever feel like that?” he asked, sight signaling to wall.
She melted like the winter glass, transparent spirit flooded in full glow.
“Today, I do,” she spoke with mirth; spirit radiant in recognition as dreamed ideal—written, shared, and illumed in morning light.
In openness to present, new story showed.